Fever Pitch
by deadselly
Summary: With his perfect reputation tarnished by the foolishness of one woman, Jackson Rippner wants revenge. Unable to focus on little else, he'll have Lisa Reisert at any cost. Rated M for strong language and some sexuality. JxL at some point, maybe.


**Fever Pitch** // **Chapter One**:

"_Thirty Three Days"_

_

* * *

_

_"You're just another pretty face  
In a room full of whores;  
No, you don't mean much.  
You used to be so naive, catatonic -  
Now you seem to be so much better than before...  
You've made a mess of yourself.  
You've made a mess of everything.  
You're a mess, a fucking mess."_

_Dizzy, _Orgy.

* * *

Chapter is rated M for mostly language with some slight sexual stuff. You've been warned.

* * *

The room was cold, the air set to a chill that best suited the tastes of of the Nine. The blinds had been closed against the light of the sun, but still a bit of it filtered through, burning lines of hot, white heat across the wall behind Jackson. Though it shone into his eyes, he did not seek to shield himself from it.

The room was spartan save for the table, made of heavy glass and thick wood and its accompanying chairs. No paintings adorned the walls, and the lighting in the room was sparse. He suspected idly that it was meant to intimidate the lesser members of the Guild, that all the sharp whites and darks of the room were meant to create a feeling of unease.

Jackson leaned back into the plush of his chair, moving his legs to rest his feet atop the glossy surface of the glass table that stood between him and his superiors. He sighed, petulant and agitated, his lips a firm frown, his eyes gliding carelessly back and forth between the Nine who sat across from him, discussing his fate with a candor that would have made most uneasy.

There was no fear in him, however. Nothing at all, actually, save for the barest touch of amusement. They talked big, all of them, but none of them would meet his eyes, save for Edmund Dietrich, his son, Reiner, and his daughter, Angelika. The former kept his expression distant; Reiner, sympathetic; Angelika, bored.

They were, of course, the only ones who mattered. Dietrich ran the show, and as a long time friend, Reiner's opinion was one of the few things Jackson actually placed value in. It was also something he knew he had no risk of losing, even in light of his recent failure. And Angelika – Jackson's history with her was strange and strained, and his impression of her was hardly flattering. But he had slept with her on numerous occasions, and she was certainly excellent past time.

The rest of them tried looked smart and talked big, regal in their tailored suits and expensive watches, but they were of little concern. Jackson found them no better than the men he regularly put to death on their behalf, but a paycheck was a paycheck, and he liked his job.

Their conversations were scattered amongst themselves, two or three grouping up to argue or make points, and Jackson found them boring, not even bothering to pick apart their words or assign them any importance. He let his head lean back, his eyes tracing invisible patterns across the ceiling before the rough sound of a man clearing his throat brought the din to a stony silence.

The culprit was a pale faced, portly man, whose blond hair was greased and plastered unflatteringly to his large skull. He looked around his fellows with serious eyes, obviously trying for something melodramatic as he placed his damp hands atop the glass table slowly.

"We stall here, but we must face the matter at hand. Rippner's failure was nothing short of spectacular." The man's voice was nasal and high-pitched, almost a child's whine. Jackson recognized him, but had never cared enough to bother remembering the man's name. His only claim to importance was being one of the Nine, and even then he was among the least important of their group. He worked mostly with finances and considerably less skilled assassins, and Jackson had never held anything but an apathetic disdain for him.

The man seemed pleased with the attention, and lifted his hands to gesture as he spoke. "The expenses that he has cost us are - "

"Are minimal," Reiner cut him off curtly, shuffling some papers in front of him. His lips played at a smirk as he eyed the smudged hand prints on the glass table where the other man's hands had just been. "The only thing that was truly lost here was time. The money spent on the weapons, the hired goons... it's not as if they are a big loss, not with our assets, not with the way work has been turning up in spades lately. We still have the first half of the payment as provided by the client, and we are entitled to the money regardless of failure. It was more than enough to cover the expenses for the job, with even some actual gain."

Reiner separated a sheet of paper, covered with numbers pertaining to Jackson's case, from the rest. He gave it a cursory glance before sliding it across the table towards the fat man. "While not an actual success, we have gained _something_ from it. You cannot deny that, Abney."

Abney scowled at Reiner, clearly agitated at being interrupted, and did not so much as look at the paper. "If you would have let me finish, you would have realized there was more to it than that."

Reiner lay the rest of the papers before him on the table, and gestured grandly at his elder, his expression a picture of mock apology. "Please, Abney. Illuminate me."

Abney shifted his weight in his seat, his heavy cheeks flushed with a bright scarlet hue. "As you say, the expenses are minimal. But the damage to our reputation is surely what we must consider here. His failure in such a high-profile job is simply something we cannot accept within the Guild."

The Nine all turned to look at Jackson with this remark, Dietrich as poker faced as he always was, Reiner looking mildly apprehensive. Jackson simply shrugged in response, his blue eyes fixed on Abney's own fidgeting brown ones with cool disinterest.

"Abney, has one of yours never failed an assignment before?" Jackson's voice was clear and cold, and it's directness seemed to startle most of the Nine.

"Of course they have," one of the Nine answered easily, giving a flustered Abney a simpering smile. It was well known that Meyrick had always hated Abney, and jumped at any opportunity to slander him. "Quite often, actually."

Angelika's laughter rang out as she tucked a golden strand of hair behind a pearly white ear. The only woman among the Nine, she was cunning and brutal, but nowhere near as talented as her associates. It was well known that she was only one of the Nine because of Dietrich's stubborn fondness for her, and so the others grudgingly respected her if only for fear of him. "Abney's men are always failing – do you even have to ask, Jack? As if you expect him to answer?" She glowed at Jackson, her eyes bright, her red lips a cruel smile. She held up her hand and counted out on her fingers. "One... two... three... four! Four found their deaths for repeated failures!"

Jackson did not look at her, did not take his eyes off of Abney, savoring the discomfort the entire conversation seemed to cause him. "So I hear. Often. And yet, more often than not, you lobby to have their failures excused, and give them yet more assignments for them to fuck up."

Abney shrugged, but Jackson could see the sweat beading on his face. "They have potential," the fat man murmured, his voice sounding far-away.

"And when, besides Keefe's case, have I ever failed a job, Abney?"

The room was quiet again, but they all knew the answer. Jackson Rippner was one of their best, and he had never failed a job before. As one of Reiner's men, he had helped Reiner climb the hard ladder to be his own father's second-in-command. It was a climb where his blood relations had actually worked against him, as Dietrich was loathe to show favoritism to his son and allowed advancement only through hard won jobs and perfect successes. It was a chair a man like Abney could only dream of sitting in, and Jackson was all too eager to point this out.

"I have never failed before," Jackson's voice was quiet. "The circumstances under which I failed were extreme, but I will readily admit that it was a failure of judgment on my part."

"You had best say that again," Abney hissed. "Brought down by some woman – some fucking cunt of a hotel manager, I hear. The great Rippner, all blood and death, put in the hospital by some raging whore on her rag and - "

Jackson stood from his chair suddenly, his dark hair in his eyes, his voice heavy with hot fury. "How dare you speak to me in that fashion? Question me? You, a manager of weak-willed failures who can barely succeed at the smallest of jobs? The only jobs your men get come from angry, scorned housewives who pay handsomely for their straying husband's demise and for the pretty head of his mistress. Tell me you wouldn't give your everything to be given my job, that you wouldn't give everything to be in my place, to have _my _failure, because it would at least mean you were worth enough to take it!"

Abney looked momentarily stunned, as if he had been slapped across the face. But his face darkened with anger, and he stood too, as if to strike Jackson, his whole body quivering with rage. "How dare _you_ speak to me that way, you fucking bastard...!"

"Calm yourself, Abney; and still your tongue, Rippner. Abney's position might be, at times, doubtful..." Dietrich let his voice trail off for a moment as he cast a withering look in Abney's direction. To his right, Angelika giggled. "...but regardless, he is still your superior. You chose to keep your position and not take your place among the Nine; you must respect that, however difficult it may be for you to swallow."

Jackson let himself fall back into his chair, casting a dirty look in Abney's direction. "Yes, sir."

Dietrich nodded, pleased with Jackson's lack of a retort. "Good boy. Now, Abney has a point. You failed in a very high profile case, and in most circumstances, this would look very bad for the Guild. But you are a special case, Rippner, because your success rate before this has been perfect, and it is very hard to tarnish a perfect reputation, even when there are more than a few eager mudslingers slinking about."

Angelika waved in Abney's direction and smiled again, her expression vicious. Her father continued as if he hadn't noticed.

"I highly doubt this will impact our business any; if anything, it will probably draw more interest. Negative publicity is, of course, still publicity. Reiner has told me there has actually been an upsurge in requests; whether or not they continue or taper off is another matter, and obviously not one that concerns you. All that really matters to you, of course, is your job."

"Of course, sir." Jackson nodded, careful and prudent. It was never wise to challenge or question Dietrich. The man scared even Jackson a little.

"I will be honest, as I believe honesty is a great virtue, even among our line of work. Abney and Jordans sought your death, to make an example of your failure. The rest of us, of course, found this line of thinking absurd. Death is a good teacher in many cases, but for one such as you... well, that would be a waste, and I won't have it. Reiner has discussed with me the complications of your job, and while I must admit I find them a bit amusing, I suppose we cannot expect you to be perfect at all times."

Jackson gritted his teeth. The idea that Dietrich found the reasons for his failure trivial were infuriating, and not for lack of any respect for Dietrich. On the contrary, Jackson had always striven to impress the older man, viewing him almost as a surrogate father. That it had come to this, this foolish charade, this dark stain on his reputation – it was all because of _her._

"I understand, and I am grateful for your ability to overlook my shortcomings. I won't allow it to happen again," Jackson murmured through gritted teeth.

"Of course not," Dietrich agreed, his eyes burning into Jackson's. "Beyond that, all for allowing Rippner to retain his job, raise."

Seven hands went up quickly; Dietrich had raised his while speaking, and Reiner and Angelika's went up almost instantly. They were followed by Meyrick, Midford, Ramsey and Scrivens. Two stayed down: Abney, and Jordans. Jordans was a tall, thin man with a pinched face and tired eyes, somehow even below Abney's position among the Nine. Jackson suspected his opinions were based more on Abney's money than any real feeling for the matter, and wondered idly how much Abney had offered. It hardly mattered.

"He stays, then." Dietrich nodded, folding his hands on the glass table before him.

"Moving to pardon Jackson from punishment, then," Reiner nodded at his father, raising his own hand in the air.

The same seven hands went up without a word. Abney and Jordans' hand remained unmoving.

"Done." It was Dietrich again, settling back into his chair with a tired look on his face. "Are we done here, then?"

"If I might ask a favor."

Jackson's works brought looks of surprise from the Nine. It was not often that one brought before them was so bold, especially given the circumstances and the actions they had taken to free him.

Reiner raised a single blond eyebrow in his friend's direction. "Yes, Rippner?"

"I would like to return to my position, and I will. But I ask for a bit of a respite from my duties for a time."

Meyrick's smile was more of a leer, and his laughter was booming. "Planning on traveling, Rippner? Some well-deserved off time for one of our best after taking a pen through the throat?"

Jackson forgave Meyrick his jibe based solely on their shared hatred for Abney and shook his head. "Nothing of a vacation. I have a score to settle."

"Keefe?" Meyrick questioned, the laughter fading from his voice, his eyebrows raised.

"Keefe was never personal, sir." Jackson's voice was smooth and dead. "This is a personal score."

He heard Reiner sigh. "Reisert."

Angelika made a small noise of contempt in the back of her throat, drumming her perfectly manicured nails on the table before her.

Jackson tensed at the name, his body tight with an anger that threatened to boil over and spill out, that threatened to overwhelm him. His only failure. He had misjudged her, misread her, and she had proved him a fool. That he was here, in this seat, facing this humiliation, was all her fault. His hands were fists again, shaking, the nails of his fingers biting into his flesh.

"Yes," he whispered, and his voice was more of a hiss.

"You seek revenge?" It was Ramsey, the only other of the Nine besides Angelika was younger than thirty. "Isn't that... well. Medieval, almost?"

It was a serious question, and one Jackson knew was not meant as an insult. "I am as guilty of pride as I am of failure, and I suspect that pride might have something to do with my failure," Jackson said, choosing his words carefully. "But I am prideful nonetheless and I don't think I can move on with further jobs until I can take my pride back."

"If pride was an instrument in your failure, Rippner, do you really think that attempting to sate it is a good idea?" Dietrich was ever the voice of reason. Unfortunately for Jackson, the voice of reason had little to do with the voice telling him that what Lisa Riesert had done was anything he could forget, let alone forgive.

"This is true, sir... but it is something I feel that would keep me from preforming well in the future, and I cannot risk any more failures."

Dietrich narrowed his eyes at Jackson, more an expression of consideration than frustration. "I see. You are Reiner's, so it is his decision."

All heads turned to Reiner, who shrugged easily. "If that is what you want, Jack."

"It isn't what I want," Jackson said quickly as he stood, bowing his head to excuse himself. "It's something I need."

* * *

It was with the Devil's speed that Jackson moved about his room, packing various items of clothing and other items he thought he might need into a small suitcase atop his bed. The room, while his, contained nothing of any personal value. It was just a room he kept while visiting the Guild on business matters, and as a general rule, he spent as little time at their headquarters as possible. He did not care generally for keeping the company of his employer, and kept his visits short.

This visit had, unfortunately, lasted longer than he would have preferred. He had expected it, of course; after intercepting his transport from the hospital to a prison in Florida, there was little doubt that they would have taken him here. He had even expected his trial by the Nine in the bright, spartan room, as formalities in such cases were expected, even for men like Jackson.

What he hadn't expected, however, was how long that trial had taken to happen. While not truly locked up, it would have been suicide on his part to leave before he had been fully judged and released, and so Jackson had been left with more time than he would have liked to spare.

He spent much of the time doing absolutely nothing productive. On rare occasions he would drink with Reiner. On even rarer occasions, he took Angelika to his room and pinned her beneath him on his bed, wondering vaguely if the sounds of her screams and her whimpers were even worth the distraction. She always brought him to climax, but they were half-hearted at best, and he was thankful that Angelika was so wrapped up in her own selfish world to notice his apathy.

Most of the time, however, had been spent dwelling on darker thoughts. Those endless whispers of anger, the aching in his mind when he let himself dwell on his failure. She had made him fail. Her. _Her._

It made him feel better to imagine the things he'd do to her. When he had Angelika beneath him, screaming and panting, he could not help but imagine it as _her _voice. And then he'd tighten his grip on Angelika, push into her just that much more, until those noises she made were more of pain than actual pleasure. _"I'm going to hurt you," _he'd say to Angelika, but the words weren't for her, and it wasn't her he wanted to hear scream.

Keefe didn't matter now, never mattered. He was just a job, and Jackson never felt one way or another about his victims. _She_ was never supposed to matter, either; she was never meant to be anything more than an after thought, a side detail, a stepping stone to his eventual success. One more number.

But she had been his failure, his undoing. He had decided that first night back as he listened to Angelika squealing beneath him that he would be _her _undoing.

There was a knock at his door as he closed the lid of his suitcase over the last of his clothing, and he did not look up. "What?"

"It's me, Jack. Let me in a second."

The voice was Reiner's, and he sighed inwardly, thankful that it was not Angelika. "Door is unlocked. You can come in."

He heard the door open and shut, and he turned to face his long time friend. Reiner was a small bit taller than Jackson, with tanned skin and blue eyes to match Jackson's. But where Jackson's were ice, Reiner's were the dark blue of an ocean in a thunderstorm, and just as difficult to read. Still, around Jackson, Reiner was always easy. It had been this way for longer than Jackson could remember, and Reiner was the only thing Jackson had left of his past life.

"Hey."

Reiner shook his head at Jackson, the smallest bit of a smile on his face, waving a packet he was holding in his hands at his friend. "You're really going."

"It's an excuse to get out of here," Jackson shrugged, running his fingers through his brown hair. "You know I hate it."

Reiner laughed, his blue eyes twinkling with genuine humor. "You're a fool, Jack. That excuse is one I expect most of the time, but I can't believe it now. You really are serious about this. I almost expected you to be chomping at the bit, begging for another job... but I have to admit, this totally threw me."

Jackson shrugged, then shook his head. "I really don't think I could take on another... not until I settle the score."

"She's really just a civilian. She was an after-thought in the Keefe case, an afterthought I guess you should have been thinking more about, but... do you really think she'll actually last when you focus your full attention on her?"

Jackson smiled at Reiner, and it was a nightmare smile, all white teeth and bright eyes. Reiner, subconsciously, took a step back.

"She wouldn't last," Jackson said, softly. "That's why I'm going to _make_ it last."

Reiner arched an eyebrow at Jackson, obviously uncomfortable. "I... almost feel bad for her."

"Almost?"

"She brought it upon herself, really. But you are scary when angry, Jack. I don't recall ever seeing you so... violent."

Jackson shrugged, but didn't answer, turning instead to rifle through a folder he had laid on his bed.

"Angelika is upset that you are leaving."

"You should be pleased, then; I know you can't stand her." There was laughter in Jackson's voice. He was finding it more and more difficult to stand her himself.

"Well, I'm upset that you're leaving. You're my best man, and my best friend. I could care less what she thinks, but she's been a prissy bitch about it and I can't say that her attitude about the whole thing doesn't annoy me, and the annoyance itself kind of stifles any pleasure I get out of watching her not get her way."

"Are you asking me to stay?" Jackson turned to look at Reiner, his expression quizzical.

"Like you actually would," Reiner sighed, tossing his hands in the air. "The rest of the Nine envy me for having you as one of mine. I thank God they don't realize that you walk all over me."

"You're right," Jackson said gently, opening the suitcase again to slip the folder in before closing it again. "I wouldn't stay. But I thank you for your permission in leaving, regardless."

"You would leave anyways. At least this way it looks like I'm actually the one in control." Reiner tossed the packet he was holding on Jackson's bed beside the suitcase.

"What's that?" Jackson glanced at the packet before returning his gaze to Reiner.

"A gift of good will. Father said that we weren't to use Guild money on your endeavor. He often forgets that, being his son, and working the job I do, I have quite a bit of money myself. There are credit cards there, with some rather extravagant lines of credit. I also asked Tennison down in the lab to make you any ids that you might need. He owes me a few favors and has lost out on a few card games... he'll help you. I'm sure that, knowing you, you already have a plan."

Jackson looked down at the packet, mildly surprised. "How much?"

"At least several hundred thousand. I trust you won't need that much, but it's there if you need it. There are actual bills and the cards themselves are in various names which will make you harder to track if you need to make a big purchase."

Jackson let himself smile at Reiner, honestly thankful. "You're too kind, humoring my small endeavors."

"Small endeavors? I have never seen you in such a fitful state, Jack. I'm just trying to make sure that you come out all right. I could stand to lose my best man, but I don't know if I could handle the loss of my best friend."

"Such humanity is not suited to our profession, Reiner," Jackson smiled at Reiner again, this time without any of the malice. "But it is a breath of fresh air, regardless."

He moved to walk past Reiner, suitcase in one hand, packet in the other, and as he got to the door, he heard Reiner behind him, serious and stern, as always.

"Take her out with a bang, then, Jack."

"Oh." Jackson's laughter was quiet. "Of course."

* * *

It had been thirty-three days since the incident, since they had taken him into the hospital, thinking he would die. He pulled through, somehow, much to her chagrin. But it didn't matter; she told herself it would be all right. They would take him to prison once he was well enough, and he would eventually leave her thoughts, leave her nightmares to her other terrors. She immersed herself in her work with a fervor almost uncommon for her and tried to forget.

It had been nine days since she had gotten the call. He had escaped, somewhere between his escort from the hospital to prison where he was supposed to be held until his trial.

It had been eight days since she had seen it on the news. Something about the police car that had been taking him to prison crashing. Something about men, appearing from nowhere. Something about a torrent of bullets that left three policemen dead, red blood on the pavement, and his disappearance – he was gone. They hadn't found him, didn't even have any idea where to look. The newscaster had urged the viewers to feel at ease; he was a terrorist, not a serial killer, and offered no harm to the general populace. She knew better, she remembered his eyes as he had chased her through her house, that furious, piercing blue that left her breathless and terrified. She had fought for her life, then, and she feared again for it now.

It had been seven days since an officer had come to her house, urging her to go and stay with her father. She was safe, he assured her, and there was nothing really to worry about. It was just a precaution. But she had not liked the way he refused to meet her eyes as he spoke to her, the way the guilt played about his face like some dark, frightful shadow.

It had been six days since she had gone to work. The Lux Atlantic phoned to tell her that the police had urged them to put her on leave for a time – both for her safety and the safety of the hotel's guests. It was then that she knew that the officer the day before had been lying. She spent the entire night crying into her pillow, jumping at shadows and the noise of the house settling.

It had been five days since she had even ventured from her father's house outside. At first her father had tried to encourage her to go places with him, but the police had spoken to him too, and he eventually stopped asking her. It didn't matter. She didn't want to leave. She lay in her bed, gazing at the remnants of her childhood about her, wishing that she were small again. That nothing had ever happened. That she could sleep without dreaming of him and his blue eyes.

It had been three days since officers had been stationed outside of her house. She had asked them if they were really necessary, but she knew the answer already, and they were evasive regardless. Precautions, they told her, and looked away, their gazes something close to pity. She didn't bother to learn their names, letting her father handle the situation.

And when they finally called her downstairs, it had been only three minutes and twenty seconds since she had cried last. She cried again as her father held her, the officer explaining that, for her safety, they were going to give her a new identity and a new place to stay, at least until they found him. There were things that lead them to believe he was targeting her, specifics they didn't care to divulge. They said many things, about where she would stay, and how she should act. Things about how she should not try to contact her family, and that she would be protected. Their words were long and kind, with many details and promises, but she kept mulling over a single sentence, one of the first she had been greeted with when they had sat her on her father's couch and handed her a box of tissues.

"Miss Lisa Reisert, we have reason to believe that Jackson Rippner might be after you."

She had taken the tissues and cried – wept – for the rest of the conversation, the words a heavy chorus in her mind. And though she struggled to listen, she could hear little else but those words, like a cold death sentence, like the laughing voice of a nightmare.


End file.
